Forfeit
by Rez1
Summary: There's a time to stop playing the game. Syd, Sark, dark.


Title: Forfeit  
  
Author: Rez  
  
Spoilers: Post-ep for "The Telling"   
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.  
  
Summary: There's a time to stop playing the game. Syd, Sark, dark.  
  
A/N: Many thanks to Auburn and Amy for reading, and to Joanna for the Toaster Challenge that spawned this little nightmare. All errors are mine.   
  
Forfeit  
  
Better a living dog than a dead lion, they say, but here we have a couple of well-trained animals who've maybe outlived their day after all. One dog maimed in the chase. One dog known to bite. Pen them together; see what happens. It might be interesting and choices, at this point, are few.   
  
*  
  
"In what fucked-up universe," she asks Marcus Dixon, "is the field agent briefed higher than his control?" Her voice these days is never anything but level and cool. Anger is something she enjoys now, plays with it, lets it ice her down and smooth her out and deal with things. Behind his desk Dixon's remote and still, but she knows him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sydney," he says, anything but apologetic. "You know there are restrictions on your clearances, and you know why." His big hands are folded, fingers interlaced, resting on the blotter of his immaculate desk.   
  
It's entertaining, she thinks, like so much else, lately. Tricky, but you just have to laugh. Start with Derevko, enemy of the state, at large. Move on to Jack Bristow, suspected traitor, behind bars. And then there's Sydney, back from the dead and no story to tell. She takes an easy breath of the denatured air they pump endlessly through the building. She's close enough to smell Dixon's aftershave, if he wore any. He used to, something light and powdery. She'd liked it.  
  
"My clearances aren't the issue here," she remarks. "I'm not your fu—I'm not your errand girl, that's all. Either give me the files or reassign me." She knows he won't but she wants to be able to say she gave him the chance. "And find someone else to chaperone the boy hero," she adds, fair warning. "He's laughing at you. I'm tempted to join him."   
  
Dixon's eyes are darker than anything she's ever seen, dark as the hole in her brain where her memory used to be, and they're patient, unwavering, while he waits for her to finish. Depth there, but no warmth. Secrets and no trust at all. He's not going to tell her anything.  
  
Dixon, of all people. It's funny how that hurts almost more than everything else.   
  
She'll get over it.  
  
*  
  
Before that.  
  
They're letting her sit with the grownups and there's Agent Reed, Mrs. Vaughn herself, sweet-faced and sleek as a pretty white cat. Made out of high-impact plastic in some black-budget doll factory.  
  
Okay, that's unfair. Sydney was the prototype, Lauren's the finished product. Weiss says she's a good agent and she loves Vaughn, who loves her back. Her family history's unstained by treason, terrorism, prophetic insanity; Sydney can definitely see the appeal—plus she's NSC, all shiny, and points for interagency cooperation in a big, big way. Weiss steers Sydney to a seat well down the table, out of arm's reach and line of sight.  
  
Marshall Flinkman, hurrying in late, takes the chair next to hers. He's married now, too, she's heard, but his eyes light up when he looks at her and he reaches, squeezes her hand impulsively. "Hey," he whispers. Dixon's glance flickers at them but Marshall can't stop grinning. She lets his delight wash through her for a moment, measures out a smile for him in return.  
  
Will Tippin gets to his feet looking anywhere but her way and Jesus, that can't be the same ratty corduroy blazer. He starts in about changes in black-market dataflow, some major coup against sectarian interests—somewhere. She's missed that, concentrating on the slight physical reverberation that followed the pressure of Marshall's hand around hers.   
  
Something about a tap-point they've slipped into the information pipeline between—who? Siphoning out whispers, hints. Out of which Tippin and Co., with Sloane consulting offline, concoct the operation currently under discussion. Will's voice falters; he's accidentally caught her eye but he recovers. Her skin feels tight, stretched over her bones like a drumhead.  
  
Dixon takes it in without moving and without saying a word. Two years after Diane and there are deep lines in his face now, and he never smiles. He'll explain later what all this has to do with her; she's only sitting here because he thought people ought to see her, get used to her again. She hears Sloane's name for the eighth time as Will winds up his brief.  
  
Fucking Sloane. Unbelievable.  
  
*  
  
Twice a week with Barnett. That's not counting the heavy stuff: straight hypnosis, drug-assisted regression, functional imaging and voice-stress analysis. Therapy, right.  
  
She always has a topic ready; she's made a list. Usually it's an object, a thing, because that's easy and she can riff on it till she hits something Barnett can relate to. She's well educated; she can build a metaphorical structure around a fucking paperclip if she has to.  
  
Last week it was all about the toaster: Mom and Dad and a bottle of rotgut from somewhere foreign—that shared memory coming out of nowhere and her mother lifting the bottle to her mouth where his had been. Time telescoping, then and now both present together.   
  
Sydney watching, four years old again; needy, taken-in, duped again. Counterfeit laughter, memory a cheat, love a shiv in the back felt only afterwards, fatal. Things burning.   
  
And how does that make you feel, Sydney? At least Barnett's stopped asking her that. "What do you think about that?" she says instead. "Why do you think that is? What will you do if it's true?" She makes up something to satisfy the doctor.  
  
Today, she decides, she'll tell the beeper story. Barnett loves it when she talks about Vaughn.  
  
*  
  
How it started.  
  
The protocol's backward, first meeting. She arrives second, under escort. He's already seated, facing the door, an empty chair opposite, waiting for her.  
  
She's frozen, understanding the trick an instant too late to hold off a little thrill of shock. They hadn't told her, of course not, hadn't even mentioned him, or only in passing. He's not a major player, never has been.  
  
And the whole room's wired, she knows. It's a fucking stage set, camera angles galore and every cubic inch miked. She knows Barnett's in bed with the Salk Institute guys doing that facial-action coding research. Why would they think this might break the lock in her head, jar something loose? They're scraping bottom, that's why. Or they think she's lying.  
  
It doesn't. She isn't. What she thinks is: Even you've changed. So much.  
  
Blond killer two years down the line: lean, grim, wolf's jaw more pronounced. The boyish curls have been shaved to stubble, prison-style, though he's well dressed and his hands are free. He looks at her distantly, as though he'd be amused but it's too much bother. The blue stare used to be meltwater cold; now it's permafrost.  
  
And she thinks: Have I changed that much? She can't tell; the mirror lies.   
  
No more laughter under the cool pose and he used to be such a tease, endless audacity, always looking for an answering spark from her; she could never bring herself to kill that. She remembers the little show he put on for her in that stairwell, with Vaughn, in—Stuttgart, it was. Choosing the Kevlar target over the head-shot: See what I could do? —But I won't, since he's yours. And she'd retorted with a near-miss, deliberate; stung him hard, sent the weapon flying out of his hand: I'd mess up those curls but they're too pretty.   
  
Killer's courtesy, eons ago. There's nothing like that now.   
  
One thing needs to be clear: she's not taking this crap from the agency nor giving Sark the opening advantage; it won't do to get off on the wrong foot. She turns her back without a word, taps on the door, waits till her minder's inquiring look fades to annoyance before she smiles at him.  
  
"That's all," she says pleasantly. "We're done." She lets him handle the door and Sark and the question of escort. Sark's not her problem.  
  
*  
  
Oh, but he is. Dixon explains it. Or he doesn't, because he can't. For the first time she sees discomfort, just a hint, in the dark eyes.   
  
"He's assigned to me." Softly, no inflection. "I'm running ops. With him." Dixon nods as though confirming a diagnosis of insanity. She should have known. Not allowed back in the field but skills too expensive to waste. They'll let Sark out, not her. Change of plan—hers, not theirs.  
  
"Within very strict limits," adds Dixon. It sounds like an apology this time. This wasn't, she understands, his idea.   
  
Sloane's a power for good and Sark's been defanged, is the gist, but she can tell Dixon has his doubts. They've got insurance of some sort but he doesn't explain it specifically. She can guess.   
  
Sark's been stripped, filleted, and pegged out like a specimen in the two years he's been in custody. If he's got any secrets left they're pathetic—was she really your mother?—and probably out of date. The agency's cored him and left the skin, that's all. He's a good tool, carefully used. So Dixon says.  
  
Two years, and she knows what they can do when there's something they want that they think you've got. Her belly tightens for a moment, involuntary protest, thinking about that. But the man she's just seen didn't look hollow, not at all.   
  
"Sydney." Dixon's hesitating as she gets to her feet. "Our interest in Sark was fairly… intense, when you first went missing." She feels a laugh tickle the back of her throat; these well-dressed men and their polite way of putting things.   
  
"Your father… took charge of his interrogation. We'll keep a close eye, and it's been more than a year, but just—be aware of that."   
  
Every word like it's being dragged up his throat on a string. If she opened her mouth the laugh might turn into something less civilized, so she doesn't.   
  
*  
  
She eats and drinks, sleeps and wakes. Her body's always been obedient. In the lunchroom they come find her, lately, gather her up and set her down and surround her, and she supposes it's better than a too-obvious pattern of isolation. Marshall's wife is home with the baby, so Marshall cuts out to be with her, some days. Weiss is always around with a swarm of wiseass friends. Will has a buddy from Imaging he drags along. They mostly chat with each other, trying for loose and easy, while she browses and drifts with what she's hearing and ignores the sidelong looks. It's all so effortful. They've all had the warning from Security: no shop-talk in front of Sydney.   
  
Lauren Reed is kind enough to meet Vaughn elsewhere.   
  
Sometimes it spreads out inside her like a flower blooming, crowding everything else, nowhere to go. It's hard to breathe; she pants like an animal or a laboring woman, has to find someplace quiet.   
  
She's looked into Michael Vaughn's eyes, seen the sick longing, years old now but new to her; the guilt she can't help but cause. Her father, the one time they'd let her see him, had looked at her with the gaze of a mortally tired man and said nothing at all. She watches her friends struggle to feel old pain again, for her sake, because it's the only thing that connects them now.   
  
This isn't secrets and lies. It isn't the simple arithmetic of loss. All the care in the world won't make two years out of a day and a night or let a fresh wound scar over magically, bloodless and clean. That's what she needs. She's not going to get it.  
  
They'd help if they could but they're too far ahead. She stretches out her hands, but it's too far to reach.   
  
And how does that make you feel, Sydney?  
  
*  
  
And now.  
  
They get it right this time. She stands when they bring him in; no point in being rude. He pauses in the doorway and she sees him relax slightly, centering; she watches his balanced stride as he crosses the distance to the table where they'll talk. He's been used on field operations twice now, Dixon says. Whatever they did to him, he's fit.  
  
They face each other, silence and the table between them till the door chunks closed. The illusion of privacy persists if you can't see the equipment. She decides she doesn't care about that. They sit.  
  
"My father tortured you, they said."  
  
No answer. The blue eyes are alert but emotionless. He's listening, that's all.  
  
"I don't know what you gave him. I haven't seen your file."   
  
Her heart's going a little too fast because this is important—it's important that she get this right. He's studying her, due diligence from a potential buyer, but he's not going to say anything. She slows down, lets him look. Amazing how clearly the Slav bloodline shows in his face now the youthful veneer's gone: the cheekbones, the deep-set eyes. She adds, finally:   
  
"They aren't telling me what they've learned about me. If you have a grudge you'll need to explain the specifics. I don't remember."  
  
She's fairly sure they've told him about that. His hands are relaxed, placed carefully on the table, fingers curling lightly in on themselves. His mouth curves just as it always did, no tension anywhere. He used to bite his lip, a little thing she'd noticed from the first, seeing him that time with Ivanko. She watches for that; it would be familiar. But there's nothing.   
  
You could say she's just handed him the game, made him a gift of her ignorance. Taking her out would be the best possible payback, if Jack Bristow's all he wants.   
  
Or you could say she's just cleared the board for a new match, zeroed the score. It depends, she thinks, on your analysis of what's going on inside her head.   
  
He could take the easier challenge and that would suit her fine. Or he could work with her, take what she's got and scheme for something bigger: liberty, a way out. She'd like to think he'd telegraph it, let her see his answering move in the clear blue eyes, but there's no sign of that, no charade for her benefit. Not a shred remains of the boy's pride in his own prowess. This is a man with nothing left to prove.  
  
That sense of potential overwhelms her for a moment. Someone's been lying to someone; and someone's been believing it. If Sark's compliant it's policy, not defeat. She thinks: they'll have to kill him. He's never going to get out of here. She takes the full strength of that ice-blue stare, understands that perhaps he's thinking the same about her and oh, if only it were true. If only she were that strong, could wait that long.   
  
He's not going to speak, that's clear, and she'll concede him this round in hopes of a greater win. She looks down at his hands again, at hers, same arrangement, what enemies do when they meet and talk: nothing concealed and no sudden moves.  
  
There's a glass panel spanning one wall of the room—naturally. She glances over at it, jerks her head toward the exit, waits for the door to open. Sark stands; there's cold amusement in his eyes, and a feral patience that makes her want to shiver. Next time's the mission brief; they'll actually have to speak to each other, spend more than ninety seconds in each other's company.   
  
"Agent Bristow," he says, and it might be mockery or it might be the indifferent courtesy of a man bored past bearing, as thanks for a mild diversion. His voice could be slightly deeper than she remembers it, perhaps to camouflage any roughening the intervening two years have inflicted. She really can't tell. He has nothing to add. She nods and watches him leave.  
  
She hopes they got what they wanted, the ones looking on and the ones who'll take things apart one electron at a time, later.   
  
In all the thinking she's done about ways and means and how to keep hold of some remnant of pride, it's always been Sloane who seemed most opportune. She could engineer a dozen scenarios that all end the same way, but there's always a taint of real distaste that spoils the thought. Sloane's like some nightmare lab-monkey who's somehow become super-smart; an ape who talks like a man, but still an ape. She'd like to take him out when she goes but that's by no means guaranteed. She doesn't kid herself about that anymore.  
  
Sark, though. Sark's always had style, and maybe he's more her speed anyway. He's the field op, she's control. She could work that to a satisfactory conclusion. She leans back in the underpadded chair and thinks about it. Eventually they come and escort her back to her desk.   
  
She calls up the next irrelevant file on the endless list of assigned reading and skims it without disturbing the more interesting train of thought. He's really very beautiful, even still. That might be okay. That might be better. And he's an assassin, after all. The humor of it tickles her.  
  
There's always the gun barrel in the mouth or the jump off the freeway overpass but she just can't stomach that. It's stupid, at this late date, but she'd like to go out fighting. He wouldn't help her if he knew, why should he? But something in the blue eyes, just now, gave her the idea that he'd probably understand.  
  
[End]  
  
September 15, 2003 


End file.
